


by the fruit

by bubblewrapstargirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Extended Branches of House Stark, F/M, Family Fluff, Happy and Confident!Theon Greyjoy, POV Outsider, Pregnancy, the Karstarks are not the only Cadet Branch of House Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 02:19:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19308646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: A tree is known by its fruit; a man by his deeds. A good deed is never lost; he who sows courtesy reaps friendship, and he who plants kindness gathers love. Love is a fruit in season at all times, and within reach of every hand.~~~~~~Berenna Stark is the eldest daughter of Lord Cregan Stark, a girl of the forest, her home nestled between the Wolfswood and the Northern mountains. She knows she must marry advantageously to improve the standing of her House, a lowly branch of the North's most prominent House. But war, like winter, always comes again eventually, and it doesn't quite work out that way.~~~~~Canon characters are main focus, only one OC has prominence.





	1. einn

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based off the fact that Edwyle Stark, Rickard Stark's father, had two male cousins who both had children, as seen on the Stark family tree on [A Wiki of Ice and Fire](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Stark#Family_Tree). Yet those branches are ignored by the narrative/have apparently died out by Game of Thrones. This story assumes that at least one cadet House survived, and there are more Starks than Eddard and his children. Focusing on my character, Berenna Stark, who is a descendant of Brandon Stark (Edwyle's cousin). But canon characters will be very prominent.

Berenna leapt confidently atop her charcoal grey mare, Cinder, named for her soot-coloured coat. She took up the reins in her gloved hands and immediately set off at a quick pace. The others had left scarely a quarter-hour since, and she was aware of her sound ability to catch up with them. Riding was Berenna’s favourite activity of all. She felt free and careless atop a horse as she never did elsewhere. Her mother used to jape she had been born in the saddle, such was her enthusiasm. But her mother was long-dead, and japed no more.

The party emerged ahead of her along the thin trail through the thicket, from the western gate which lead deep into the Wolfswood. It was a dirt path that eventually emerged at Deepwood Motte, the wooden fortress of their nearest neighbours. Immediately ahead, her elder cousin, Hugo, was drawing up the rear of the hunting expedition. He looked around knowingly, seeming to expect to find her following them, and only flashed her a wicked grin. Hugo and his younger siblings were wilder than Berenna and hers, but it was only to be expected. His mother was from the mountain clansfolk, and wielded an axe. Gilliane Wull, as she had been born, was not the first option for a bride, for a son of House Stark. But Hugo and Berenna were of the cadet branch - and not the mighty one of Karhold, with a grand keep and large lands to farm.

Their House had been granted lands less than a century ago, nestled in the Wolfswood between Winterfell and Deepwood Motte, at the foothills of the mountains. Indeed, the castle was carved directly out of the mountains themselves, only its outer wall which ringed the godswood were boulders that had been sanded smooth and built up high. Because of this, there were only three official gates out of the keep. The road south led to Winterfell, the home of her more noble cousins. The path east split in twain, with one road sharply turning north, to wind into the mountains, and another that eventually joined the Kingsroad. Lastly, there was the path that led west, to Deepwood Motte, or else met the Sunset Sea at the Bay of Ice. This path wound through the Wolfswood, their source of food and income. Though there had been excavations into the mountains, the rock was not lined with copper or useful minerals, being barren limestone that only occasionally yielded large enough deposits of quartz to be fashioned into jewellery. Berenna herself had many quartz pieces, including a rose quartz pendant, that had once belonged to her mother. She kept it safe on a silver chain, hanging about her throat always.

No, it was not mining that was the chief trade of House Stark of Hawthorn Ridge, but timber and carving. Her father, Lord Cregan Stark, was an especially skilled carpenter. He had carved the intricate chairs for the top table of their great hall, which were patterned with knots and weirwood leaves. The forest provided them with everything, and what it could not give, the mountains at their back gave. And Berenna loved it. She could not imagine a life outside the forest, and she did not wish to. Not for the first time, she was saddened that House Glover had no eligible young man that she could marry, so she could remain in her beloved woods.

“What a coincidence that you should be riding on this fine, almost cloudless morn, Renna,” said Hugo, when Berenna spurred her horse to close the distance between them.

Berenna snorted. She was not ashamed of her wants, and made no bones about her wish to join any expedition into the forest. Her father had only just begun to grow wary of her riding out, since he had started to cast a net, hoping to catch a suitable match for her. She had come of age years ago, but with her mother dead in the birthing bed, Berenna had needed to remain at home, to care for her baby brothers and take over her mother’s duties in the household. Aunt Gilliane was only of minor help here; she preferred to be in the sparring yard or felling trees rather than counting coppers. But she provided assistance whenever beseeched, and that was enough to set Berenna’s mind at ease.

“The forest is my home,” said Berenna, “and I will be parted from it ere long. I will not apologise for wringing out every last moment I can enjoy, within these woods.”

“And you’ll find no argument with me,” Hugo assured her, “But Nuncle Cregan might take some issue with it, Renna.”

“And mayhaps he shall,” Berenna agreed, “But that is my burden to bear. The stablehands will have seen me ride out behind you. You’ll catch no blame.”

They were interrupted then, before he could reply. Torrhen Lake, the Captain of the household guards, had finally noticed the female addition to the hunting party, and swiftly turned his steed around, the gallop to them and chastise her. Berenna was as unashamed in her brazen disobedience toward him  as she had been to Hugo. Though Torrhen attempted to send her back to the keep, she refused, and there was little he could do in the face of her obstinacy. Eventually, he settled for gritting his teeth and declaring that their hunt would have to be a shorter one.

The men glowered at Berenna for that, she bit her lip to stop herself from apologising for it. She would be a betrothed woman before the year was out, or so her father had promised. And married the following year, since she was not an unflowered girl, but a young maiden of seven and ten. Who knew how far from the Wolfswood she would end up? Her mother had been a Woolfield, from the eastern shores of the North, near White Harbour. Berenna might have to travel even further than that, across the open plains of the Rills, or past the mountains to the far North of fertile Umber and Karstark lands.

In many ways, Berenna was excited about the prospect of becoming a wife and mother. She adored children, and knew she would spoil her own. She had been her father’s only heir for many years, and her parents had doubted they could conceive again. After ten years, Lord Cregan had taken her hand and confessed his plan to her. If her mother passed out of her fertile years and no sons were born to them, he was going to petition her uncle, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, for Berenna to marry his natural son, Jon Snow. Then she would inherit the Ridge on her father’s death, and they would rule it together.

Berenna had thought this a very fine plan indeed. She would never have to leave home, and could instead raise her children to love the forest and the mountains as she did. They had even travelled to Winterfell earlier that year for the Harvest Festival, and Berenna had come to know her Stark cousins well. She had been fond of Jon, though he was not as spirited as Uncle Ned’s heir, Robb. Despite her acceptance, even zeal for the match, it had not come to pass. Her mother had eventually provided their House with two male heirs, Berenna’s younger brothers, Artos and Errold.

Now, Berenna was not to remain at the Ridge, but travel as far as she must for a decent match. Her father had been in negotiations with Lord Bolton for a match with his only son and heir, but that had fallen through when the man in question had promptly died. Then they had hosted the Karstarks, but her uncle Beron (whom Berenna had been named for, such was the strong affection between her father and his only sibling), had first snapped up a match for Hugo in Lord Karstark’s eldest daughter Alys. Though Hugo was not the heir to anything, he was handsome and charming, and the Ridge was a very large keep, extending far into the mountain, and their patch of the Wolfswood was very fertile. Alys was evidently half in love with Hugo and the Ridge itself by the time the Karstarks set off for home.

Since there was entirely no point in reaffirming the bonds between the two lesser branches of House Stark twice over, Berenna would not be marrying into that House. Berenna’s hopes now rested entirely on House Forrester, who lived deep in the Wolfswood at the foot of Sea Dragon Point, and were bannermen to House Glover. Ironwood was their trade, and Berenna knew she would feel welcome in a House so similar to her own, which whittled their livelihood from the forest.

But her father had begun to speak of Daryn, of House Hornwood, with hesitant hope, well knowing Berenna’s affection for the woods. The Hornwood was entirely unknown to her, but she was not entirely opposed to the idea. She had never seen a moose, as they did not frequent the Wolfswood, but she was certainly intrigued by the idea of such gigantic deer. Anything would be better than the open plains and rolling green hills. Such places made Berenna nervous. There was no protective cover; no medicinal moss and bountiful fruit trees and tiny skittering mammals in such places. No protection from the harsh wind and heavy snow. Enemies could see you from miles off and you could not hope to hide from prying eyes. Such places were not safe, and provided no comfort to Berenna.

The only thing worse would be to live in a city, surrounded by bricks and hollering voices, with no peace or leaves to speak of. She thanked the gods she had been born in the woods, and the North only had one horrid city to abide. Berenna had once travelled to White Harbour to meet her mother’s sister, Lady Leona, who had married into House Manderly. Never again. While she liked her Manderly cousins greatly, and the splendid views of the Narrow Sea from New Castle, Berenna hated the city it was nestled in. Loud, over-crowded and stinking of fish and unwashed peasants, it was not long before she longed for the quiet shade of the forest.

Distraction from her uncertain future was what Berenna craved in these mid-summer months. She was not a skilled hunter, better with traps and snares than with the bow. But Berenna enjoyed any excuse to ride, so she consented to act as Hugo’s spotter, pointing out pigeons and squirrels, so that he could shoot them down. The aim of the hunt was a deer, naturally, but they were cautious beasts and not easily found on the fringes of the Wolfswood that Berenna and her kin called home.

As the day grew long, they continued to ride further west in their pursuit of the elusive animal, but none were spotted. Still the day was not a waste; many pigeons had been successfully shot down, and Berenna’s stomach announced that it was greatly looking forward to the resulting game pie. Their luncheon had been meagre bread and cheese, with only a small chunk of ham each. Boar wasn’t very common in their neck of the woods either. This one had been brought down by her uncle Beron, who was a very skilled hunter. He had taken both Hugo and Berenna out into the woods and taught them to shoot down birds and small creatures, in the years when she had been her father’s only heir, and was thus expected to be more manful.

Now, her father would prefer Berenna was more ladylike, but in truth, aside from her love of riding, Berenna was a lady. She enjoyed to sing and dance and sew, and played the flute so well it made grown men cry, when she breathed out a mournful tune. Berenna had no interest in arms, and had repeatedly refused her Aunt’s kind offers to spar in the yard. She didn’t object to dust on her clothes from her beloved woods, but Berenna had no interest in rolling about in the mud. Still, her Aunt had managed to drag her out there a time or ten. So Berenna had some basic skill with a blade. But certainly it would not be her first choice of weapon. She preferred reason and silver-tongued words over the shining flash of steel.

She lamented her habit of riding out entirely weaponless, when an arrow parted the air so close to Berenna’s face that she felt its displacement, even as she heard the distinctive ‘thwip’ sound as the arrow landed its mark. Berenna whipped her head to follow its trajectory, despite knowing she should be looking for the one who had loosed it. Torrhen was doubled over in his saddle, and she could see the blood spurting from the wound in his chest. Berenna had never seen a man killed before, and bile rose in her throat, threatening to come pouring out of her mouth and onto her deep blue riding cloak.

Their small party was set upon by thieves; hairy, squat men with ill-crafted arrows and bare steel. The Wolfswood was entirely occupied, and they had passed the small shack settlements of the peasants that lived on her father’s lands all through the day. Even in its deepest thickets, men could be found. And where there were men with goods of any sort, there were thieves. These men were one of the many roving troupes of bandits, identifiable by the motley, mis-matched armour and weapons they carried, ill-fitting because they had been stolen from their victims. Berenna gasped when their party was suddenly surrounded by these ugly, dark-hearted men, with merciless eyes and sharp swords.

Her wits subsumed by terror, Berenna could only gape uselessly, still in the grip of horror at Torrhen’s apparent death. He had shown her how to set a snare, and had slipped her a sweetmeat, when she had been sent to bed without dessert for being petulant. He had even taught Berenna to fish, on that horrid trip to White Harbour. Torrhen was her father’s trusted and well-loved man. He had once lost two fingers to a wolf bite, defending Cregan. It seemed impossible that he could be dead. Torrhen had a wife and two daughters. They would be devastated at the loss, as was Berenna.

Hugo pushed ahead of her, his charger diagonally ahead of Berenna. He pressed her into the circle of her father’s men. Berenna did not see who struck first. It seemed to her that chaos simply erupted, in the space between one breath and the next. A cacophony of sound that had her gentle mare twitching in terror at the unexpected noise. Berenna felt helpless, and wished fervently that Aunt Gilliane was there, to throw Berenna her spare axe and chide her for sitting idle while there was fighting to be done.

She let out a cry as a brigand lurched toward her, yanking at the saddle and Berenna’s left leg, as though he meant to drag her from it. Hugo slashed his sword down into the man’s arm, severing it below the elbow in a fountain of blood that soaked Berenna’s skirts. She gagged, disgusted, and wobbled precariously in her seat as the man’s weight was abruptly removed from her. An arrow whizzed close to her and skewered poor Cinder in the shoulder, the horse giving a high, terrified whinny in response, and lurching into a canter. Berenna grabbed for the reins, narrowly avoiding being thrown as her petrified horse bolted, kicking up dirt as she sped away from the skirmish and far from the safety of the road. Berenna let out a scream, finally releasing the horrified tension of the last few moments, and the last sound she heard before they were swallowed by the forest was Hugo calling her name.

  


~~~ _Riding was Berenna’s favourite activity of all. She felt free and careless atop a horse as she never did elsewhere._ ~~~

 

She had dug in her heels and tried her best to sooth her startled mare. But Berenna did not succeed in drawing her to a standstill for what felt like hours, but was probably just the one. When she was at last able to stumble from the saddle, her legs weak from fear, she assessed her situation with a grimace. Her horse was injured, she was far from the path, alone without many supplies. Berenna had no food, save for the few squirrels and single pigeon she had consented to carry when asked. Her water-skin was half full, and there were no rivers this far east. She did not even have a bow or blade to feed and defend herself with. Suddenly, the forest that she loved so much felt unfriendly, the shadows overlong as night drew in. The party had just turned to head back home, meaning they were almost as far away from the Ridge as they had ever been on that particular hunt. No assistance would come until the bandits were dealt with and their swiftest rider shucked their supplies and alerted her father to the situation.

Berenna squared her shoulders. She was a Stark of Hawthorn Ridge. She could remain calm, and keep herself safe until they came for her. They would not find a fragile flower, cowering in terror at shadows. She would remember what her Aunt, lord father, Uncle and Torrhen had taught her, of how to survive. Drawing up her hood to stave off a little more of the chill as the light began to fade, Berenna stepped around Cinder to see where the shaft of the arrow was still sticking out, blood thick and congealed around the wood. Berenna bit her lip as she considered what to do. She could not work Cinder until she collapsed, riding hard in the treacherous dark to find safety. She must do what she could to treat the wound, set a fire and feed herself to keep her strength up. Berenna tied her horse to a sturdy oak tree, before yanking out the arrow in one sharp, swift tug. She could not risk Cinder charging off in response to the pain again, and it seemed Berenna was wise to do so, as the mare immediately screamed out a protest, and made to gallop away. Berenna was forced to leap back, lest she be smacked by the frightened horse.

Although she had little in the way of supplies, Berenna knew which plants could be used for medicinal purposes, and she spied a small mint-like shrub, that Maester Tybek ground with a mortar to heal shallow wounds. Thankfully, the arrow-wound qualified as such, and Berenna had no fears that Cinder would bleed out. She poured out a little water onto her embroidered handkerchief to clean the wound, despite the horse’s pained shudders. Berenna did not have a pestle and mortar, but she had her teeth. She chewed at handfuls of the leaves until her jaw ached, but she had enough wet and ragged leaves to pack the wound. It had numbing properties, and the horse seemed to settle for it, but letting the juices into her mouth had done the same for Berenna, and her lips and tongue felt heavy like dead flesh. Battling to ignore the unnerving feeling, she set about gathering firewood.

Once she was seated beside the merry fire, two squirrels roasting on twigs, Berenna felt far more secure. If she did not look about her overmuch, she could almost pretend she was on one of her early trips to the forest, long before her mother had died, when she had slept under the stars with Uncle Beron and two eldest cousins. But the illusion was shattered when she noticed the Ice Dragon constellation, and sought to point it out to Theo, Hugo’s younger brother, and then saw that he was not there. Feeling more lonely than even the bleak weeks after her mother’s death, Berenna wrapped her cloak about herself and settled down to sleep, tears on her pale cheeks.

She thought sleep would only come reluctantly, when her racing mind was finally able to quieten. But Berenna supposed incorrectly; the excitement of the day had worn her out, and she soon succumbed to the deep bliss of slumber.

When the sun rose, Berenna was able to orientate herself by it. She set off in an eastern direction, carving her own path between the pines and hawthorns. By mid morn, she came upon an apple-tree, which served to break her fast. Berenna then sutffed her pack with as many apples as it would allow. She also granted Cinder a break from her weight, by walking alongside the horse, until noon came and went. Then they came upon a clearing, and a small wooden hut. Berenna sighed in relief, and haled the curious smallfolk woman that peered out of its lone window. The middle-aged woman came out to greet her, rubbing her gnarled hands on the dirtied apron about her waist.

“Good day to you, mistress,” said Berenna politely, and the woman smiled, gap-toothed, pleased by her manners.

“G’day, m’lady,” she returned, with a little dip of a curtsy.

Though it was clumsy, Berenna smiled to see the sign of deference toward her. She had always been friendly toward the smallfolk, grateful for the way they toiled tirelessly for the privileges her family enjoyed. She was not so very grand as to think herself far above them. She may be a Stark, but her branch hung very low on the tree. Without advantageous marriages, they would be soon be considered very base indeed, which was why her father fretted over her prospects so.

“M’lady is alone?” the woman asked, seemingly very worried for Berenna.

“Through no wish of mine own,” said Berenna, and she proceeded to explain being set upon by bandits, and the woman gasped and wrung her hands.

When Berenna asked the way to the road east, back to the Ridge, the peasant woman frowned.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lady,” she said, “But Winterfell’s a mite closer than the Ridge.”

_Winterfell?_

Berenna frowned, having not realised she had gone so far out of her way. But the woman insisted that by the road, Winterfell was only a day and a half, whereas the Ridge would be closer to three. Berenna did not have enough water or food for three days ride. But the older woman took care of that, filling her water-skin from her bucket, and offering her a hard chunk of bread and cheese that she made herself, from her goats. She protested when Berenna offered her the pigeon in recompense, and refused to take it until Berenna insisted quite profusely.

“I have no skill to pluck and prepare it,” Berenna said, which was entirely true.

Berenna could skin a small rodent or rabbit, but she had never plucked a bird before. That was the remit of the servants in the kitchens. At last, the woman consented to take the bird, and beamed at Berenna as though she was Good Queen Alysanne herself, come to bless the lesser mortals with her very presence.

The woman had two children, who had shyly remained indoors, watching from the window as they spoke. But they came obediently when called. A boy and a girl, with long, wavy brown hair. The boy was the younger, perhaps four years old, and he stuck his hand in his mouth when introduced to “our Lady Berenna of the Ridgestarks”, whereas the girl gave the same approximation of a curtsy as her mother. The children were tasked with leading Berenna to the road, and they did so with gusto, holding hands as they skipped alongside her, as their mother had made them promise to do.

Berenna waved to them with a beaming smile from atop Cinder’s back, bidding the sweet babes goodbye at the edge of the road. It felt strange to be heading south-east toward Winterfell and away from her home, without her cousins, father or brothers beside her. Berenna had never travelled anywhere without at least one of them beside her, in all her life. Now she was to turn up at Uncle Ned’s door, with ragged hair and three-day old, blooded clothes, upon an injured horse. Whatever would they think of her?

She was not sure Lady Catelyn approved of their branch of the family overmuch. Especially since Aunt Gilliane made her distain of the Southron woman’s false gods quite clear. No doubt Lady Catelyn would take issue with Berenna riding so far alone, and think her lacking in virtue and morals. But there was nought that Berenna could do but venture onward regardless. She was at least secure in the knowledge that they would never turn her away. She was their kin, and the Starks valued family above all else.


	2. tveir

When the grey spires of Winterfell appeared in the distance, Berenna once more alighted from Cinder's back and unwound the messy braids of her hair, which had become knotted and tangled from three days without a brush. She had been forced to make a rudimentary camp again, as the woman warned her she would. Berenna had spent a miserable night in the damp earth, woken shivering to find her fire had been put out by the drizzle of rain. She had slept only fitfully after that, and woken with a pounding head, in a foul mood.

Riding had done a little to alleviate the stress of her lack of sleep or cleanliness. But at length the fresh, rushing air as she rode relaxed her somewhat, alleviating the pain in her head. As the sun parted the gloomy rain clouds and her damp clothes began to dry, Berenna's mood improved vastly. It was just after noon, judging by the position of the sun in the watery blue sky, when Berenna stopped to tidy herself. There was nothing she could do about the blood on her dress or the dusty state of her cloak, save for removing the outer garment and giving it a sound beating. She used the last of her water to give her face and hands a rudimentary scrub afterwards. It was the best she could do.

After feeding herself and Cinder her remaining apples, Berenna launched herself back into the sturdy saddle and continued onward. Gradually the trees became more familiar, appearing neater the closer she ventured to the huge, towering structure of Winterfell. Here they had been stripped of their extraneous branches for firewood so frequently that they looked almost cultivated, like the grand gardens of the Southron Houses were said to be. Berenna pursed her lips in disapproval. She preferred the forest in its most natural look. So busy was she in taking her surroundings, that she almost rode past her own kin.

In a thicket to her left came the shift of movement, and Berenna clutched her reins tightly, immediately worried. All manner of strange folk roamed outside any castle, and she could not assume it would be Winterfell men that found her, even so close to her sanctuary. But she needent have fretted. From between the bushes emerged a familiar tumble of red-brown curls, atop the sweetly surprised face and wide blue eyes of her cousin, Robb.

He had grown well in the two and a half years since she had last seen him, when he and his father had travelled in a short campaign across the western side of the North. They had twice visited her father's keep, on their way to and from a visit with the mountain clans. He had been far shorter and more wiry then. In the intervening years, he had enjoyed a growth spurt both up and out, his frame being stocky but not flabby now. He favoured his Tully side in all manner of his looks he seemed; his father had the typical tall and thin Northern look.

He would have looked very attractive, with his Tully look and newly fleshed out frame, were it not for the stupid gape of his mouth as it hung dumbly open. Berenna might have giggled, were the situation not so dire. But as it was, she was cold from the damp of the night before, tired and hungry, without knowledge of her cousin and if he fared well after a friend and guardsmen of theirs had been slain. Now was not the time for mirth

"What's got you struck paralysed?" a familiar voice cried out, and from the same clump of shrubbery, Theon Greyjoy pushed his way out to stand beside Robb.

"Why, it's cousin Berenna!" Robb cried at last, finally rallying after the unexpected shock of seeing her.

Theon fixed her with a hard look, not impressed by her unannounced visit, but he said nothing.

"Look, Theon- cousin Berenna!" Robb tried again, as though his friend needed convincing of her identity.

"She's no kin of mine," Theon grumbled, but Robb took no notice.

Berenna's lips curled into a sneer as she met Greyjoy's eyes. She was equally as glad as him, that they shared no blood between them. Theon Greyjoy may have been her cousin's closest friend, but Berenna found him to be an uncouth pissant, bitter at his status as a "ward" of Winterfell.

Berenna had not been born with a prejudice against the Ironborn, but her Aunt's terrifying stories of their raids along the eastern shores of the North were enough to allow one to grow. Theon was taken from them too young for him to be involved in anything of the sort, yet still she mistrusted him. He had been taught that reaving, raping and rading was normal, even blessed by his Gods. She shuddered to be near him. All the mountain clansfolk were particularly vocal in their hatred of Ironborn, and Berenna shared those sentiments.

Theon Greyjoy, for his part, had never displayed great savagery, only a crude nature in speech and thoughtless action. He looked down upon Jon for his bastardy, seemingly unaware that any Northern bastard was worth ten Ironborn to any of the North, Berenna included. Greyjoy was impatient and unkind, and Berenna could not understand what Robb saw of him. She had informed him of her opinion of him when last they met, and he had promptly replied that she was a haughty cow who believed herself prettier than she actually was.

Berenna had been hurt by that comment, prodding and poking her face in the glass, saddened to see that Greyjoy was right. She had a long, Northern face, with a nose that was too long and pointed, and lips too thin to be considered beautiful. Still, she had her youth and a sound mind, and her health. So long as she could manage a household and birth strong babes, she would still make a good match for any lordling, she had reassured herself.

Remembering his rude comment about her looks now, Berenna returned Greyjoy's icy look, momentarily forgetting the dire circumstances of her arrival.

Unaware of the animosity between two people he loved dearly, Robb advanced upon her with a smile, reaching up to take the reins of her horse. Berenna slid gracefully to the ground beside him, revealing the blood staining her ruined skirts.

Robb caught sight of it and blanched. He began looking about, as if searching for her riding companions. He asked if she were hurt, but Berenna quickly eased his fears.

"I am alone," said Berenna, "Our hunting party was set upon, on the road, and we lost at least one man. My horse bolted before I knew what became of the others."

Even Greyjoy swallowed thickly at that, disturbed by the news. Robb looked distraught.

"Gods, Renna," he muttered, "Are you well?"

Berenna shrugged. She was not entirely unscathed, her hands scratched from bushes and trees when Cinder bolted, her back aching from two nights spent on the hard ground without so much as a bedroll or blanket, when she was very unaccustomed to such things.

"Poor Cinders is worse off than I," she admitted, drawing their attention to the still-packed wound, where the green makeshift poultice was beginning to flake away.

Robb inspected her attempt at maester's work with interest, before casting her another worried look. He began to unbind the warm, fur-lined cloak about his shoulders.

"Here," he said, "I know it rained last night."

Berenna thanked him, and shucked her still slightly damp cloak, which she tossed over the saddle of her horse. Robb's cloak was warmed from his recent inhabitance, and she burrowed into it gratefully.

"Uncle Cregan must be fair worried," Robb surmised, "His men set upon, and daughter missing. Let's hurry back, and I'll take you to father at once."

"Thank you," said Berenna, "I'll not be calmed until I see the raven fly, baring news of my safe arrival with my kin. I am glad it was you that found me, Robb."

"As am I," said Robb, smiling at her sweetly as he began to lead poor, exhausted Cinder on, so that she could be treated by Hullen, Uncle Ned's Master of Horse.

Robb offered her his water-skin and Berenna took it gratefully, his water cool and clean from the little streams around Winterfell, versus the dregs in her own, which had been filled from the bucket.

 

[](https://ibb.co/yRsmQ5J)  
~~ _Berenna slid gracefully to the ground beside him, revealing the blood staining her ruined skirts._ ~~

 

 

They made their way at a hurried pace into the stronghold, Berenna charmed at once by the sights and sounds of Winterfell. It was a tradional castle, if a huge and mighty one, not carved from the steady mountain but dominating the land nonetheless with its formidable presence. The servants stared to see a bedraggled girl being escorted by the heir to the North, especially the younger ones who did not recognise her.

But soon the murmurs contained her name, and Berenna smiled at the few servants that greeted her personally, with respectful curtsies. Robb sent a child scurrying off to find Lord Stark, and asked Greyjoy to lead Berenna's horse to the stables. Greyjoy rolled his eyes but consented to do so, stomping off, unlikely to return. Berenna could not pretend she was sorry for the loss of his company. He was a rude, selfish boy.

Uncle Ned came rushing toward them not long after, his brow creased with worry, stopping in momentary surprise at the sight of her. He was not Berenna's uncle in truth of course, not being a brother either of her parents, but rather a distant cousin of her father's. The two lords regarded one another as cousins, however, and had encouraged their children to call them Uncle, and love them as such. Berenna thought might not love him quite as much as Uncle Beron, who shared her home and hearth. Nor over Aunt Leona, who wrote to her frequently from White Harbour - but she was very fond of solemn, quiet Uncle Ned also.

"My, my," he said, "Renna Stark, what a lovely sight you always are."

He opened his arms and wrapped her in his warm embrace. Feeling entirely exhausted now that her fraught journey had come to an end, Berenna sagged into his arms, and nuzzled him a little, comforted by his gentle hold and manly scent.

Ned Stark drew back, to take in her less than stellar appearance. He well-knew that Berenna was a lady, and proud to be such. She would not ride to Winterfell looking so bedraggled, without good reason.

"Whatever has befallen you, child?" he asked, "My cousin and nephews, are they well?"

"They were when I left them," Berenna assured him, "Though for my cousin Hugo, I could not say. When last I saw him, he was battling the bandits that attacked our hunting party, before my horse bolted."

Berenna told him the whole sorry tale as he led her inside, along the draughty stone corridors to the family apartments.

When they arrived, Uncle Ned led her inside the spare room, where two maids were already scurrying about, cleaning away the dust of disuse and setting the fireplace.

"Rest," said Ned, "I shall write to your father at once, and send out swift riders, to look for these bandits or Hugo and his party. I'll have food sent from the kitchens, and Maester Luwin will be along to see to your wounds."

Berenna wanted to say that it was not necessary for they were only shallow scratches, but when she opened her mouth what came out was a mighty yawn. She quickly covered her mouth, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment, but Uncle Ned only let out a quick bark of a laugh.

"Rest," he repeated, "I'll have them wake you when food arrives."

Robb gave her a quick, affectionate hug of his own before he left the room behind his father. Once the maids were done sweeping, Berenna was alone again, and considerably warmer. She stripped out of her muddied boots immediately, and placed them outside of the door for cleaning.

Berenna did not think she would be able to follow Ned's orders, not sure she would be able to sleep until she saw the raven taking wing, to send word to her father. But when she sagged onto the featherbed she was asleep and snoring before she even had the chance to take off her dress. She awoke again at the gentle shake of the maester's hand. He had brought her a bowl of clean water, and washed her wrists before dousing a handkerchief with a foul-smelling liquid that he placed over the newly stinging cuts on her hands and wrists. Berenna hissed, but did not pull away from the treatment.

A kitchen made came carrying a tray of hearty broth and thick bread, as well as two orange sweetmeats, and Berenna bid her stay until the maester was done. When Luwin left with Berenna's thanks, she asked the curious girl to assist her with the lacings off her dress. Though Bessa, the maid, insisted that she had never been trained in the arts of the chambermaid, Berenna assured her it did not matter. Berenna was too tired to escape her soiled dress with any speed, and she required sleep again dreadfully. Blushing and stumbling over apologies as she fumbled with laces, the girl helped her to undress.

Left in the shift and smallclothes, Berenna released the girl. She proceeded to eat the lovely carrot and leek broth in unladylike slurps, wrapped once more in Robb's borrowed cloak to stave off the chill. After all the food was ravenously devoured, Berenna shucked the last of her clothes, and used the cloth and bowl of water Luwin had left her to scrub her whole body in the flickering light of the fireplace. As she seated herself, naked before it, Berenna had never felt more soothed and luxurious. It wasn't long before she sought out her borrowed bed again. 

She had denied the need for dreamwine, which Luwin had kindly offered. She knew that she was not traumatised by her ordeal, which could scarcely be termed such. Two nights in the forest was hardly an epic saga. Hoping she would wake to her father's answering raven, Berenna promptly fell back to sleep, and did not wake until well into the next morning.


	3. þrír

Berenna woke to the sound of shrieking, and for a moment she was frightened, until the sounds clarified themselves into children’s laughter. She breathed deeply to dispel the nervous anxiety racing underneath her skin. Stretching hugely and yawning, she slid gracefully from the featherbed. A maid had laid out what looked to be two of Lady Catelyn’s dresses. They would be to long for Berenna, who was not as willowy and tall as Lady Stark. Berenna was slender enough in the shoulder, but her hips and legs were decidedly more curvaceous. That might counteract the length nicely, now that she thought on it.

Selecting the dark blue dress, Berenna began to clean herself, a maid bringing her bread and cheese to break her fast and help her dress. The shoes must have been Sansa’s, for Berenna had noticeably small feet. Mildly excited to be in Winterfell, despite the circumstances, Berenna sought out her cousins before she looked for Uncle Ned. The nursery was occupied by the tiny newborn baby Rickon, who gurgled at the sight of her, kicking his strong legs and biting at his feet. It was the first time Berenna had met him, and she was glad to, reaching in to wiggle his tiny toes. She laughed at his resulting giggles.

Old Nan gave Berenna a winning smile as she looked up from her knitting, seated beside the cradle.

“Tis good to have more Starks in Winterfell,” she said, “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. And Robb will need a wife before long.”

Berenna blushed flagrantly.

“Nan!” she cried, though the suggestion was not entirely without merit.

Still, Berenna did not like to raise her hopes. What could she offer Robb? Winterfell already had access to their own patch of the wolfswood. She was not like the Manderly girls, furnished with a dowry of silver. Berenna’s father could only offer trinkets from the mountains as a unique point, and they were not plentiful mines. The best had been given to Uncle Beron, so that he could impress the Karstarks. Her Uncle's mine did have the better yeild, but he had needed a substantial pile  to convince Lord Karstark to part with his eldest daughter. Alys was a sweet girl who had helped convince her father of the soundness of the match, as she liked Hugo very much.

Dismissing the idea of a betrothal of her own, Berenna made her way through the vaguely familiar keep. She only lost her way once, and was startled by Bran climbing over the parapet like a monkey. He cheerfully directed her to Sansa and Arya’s lessons before scrambling over another dangerous ledge and out of sight. Berenna shook her head in amusement and carried on her way.

“Good morrow,” said Berenna smoothly when she entered the room.

“Berenna!” cried Sansa sweetly, who always spoke to everyone using their proper name or title.

“Renna,” Berenna chided her in gentle reminder, as she was flocked by the gentle girls.

Arya was hopping from foot to foot in impatience as Sansa, Jeyne and Beth cooed over her, lamenting her terrible journey and the horridness of it all. Berenna had to stifle a giggle at the unimpressed look on Arya’s face. Arya and Aunt Gilliane had much in common. They would have given the bandits a better fight than Berenna did, of that she was certain. But she could not go back and undo it. She could only pray that Hugo and the others had lived, and she intended to.

“Girls, girls,” chided their Southron Septa, “Let the Lady Berenna breathe. She has suffered great indignity and requires rest. Some decorum please.”

Sansa pouted, and she led her friends to return to their seats and sewing reluctantly. Before Arya could scurry away too, Berenna reached out and tugged the small girl into a warm hug. For a moment Arya was stiff, and then she remembered that Berenna wasn’t quite as boring as other girls and sparred in the yard sometimes. Then she threw her arms about Berenna’s waist joyfully.

“Would you like to join our sewing circle, Lady Berenna?” offered the Septa politely.

Still, Berenna only just managed to squash down the urge to grimace at the idea of taking instruction from a woman of the false faith. The North might be more accepting of the Faith of the Seven in many parts, but Berenna’s House were almost a mountain clan. They kept to the old ways.

“No thank you,” she said, “Our way is the old way. I do not follow the Seven. I am for the godswood this morn, to pray for the safe return of my cousin and the men in our party.”

“Very well, my lady,” said the Septa, but Sansa frowned.

“It’s a sewing circle. We’re not in the Sept, Berenna,” she sniffed dismissively.

Berenna raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “I am not sure how the eldest daughter of House Stark of Winterfell usually treats guests who politely decline activities. But the eldest daughter of House Stark of Hawthorne Ridge, knows better than to stray from the old ways, which kept her family safe for generations. Can you say with honesty, that Septa Mordane, dutiful and kind as she is, has never read from the Seven Pointed Star as you worked?”

Sansa flushed horribly, but Berenna was not sorry for it. She knew that Sansa was a spoilt girl, and rather selfish. Her heart was not yet black because of it, and she could be very generous. But she had a very odd way at looking at those less fortunate than herself, inherited from the sensibilities of her Southron mother. Berenna suspected that Sansa needed to be challenged about her ideas and lofty speech far more often than she was.

With a smooth curtsey, Berenna took her leave while Sansa was still spluttering, looking for a response. She caught Arya’s incredulous, thrilled look and could not stop herself from flashing the girl a small smirk.

Uncle Ned was in the godswood, cleaning his sword afore the magnificent heart tree. Berenna joined him on the low stone bench. Ice, the ancestral Valyrian steel sword of the Winterfell Starks, glittered sharply in his hold, the crimson ripples glowing like blood streaming through a river. Berenna shivered, suddenly cold.

“I have received a raven from your father,” said Lord Stark with a kindly smile, “His party will make for Winterfell this very day.”

Berenna clapped her hands in delight, “This is wonderful news, my lord. But if I might ask, was there tell of…”

“Your cousin Hugo lives,” said Ned, “As do the majority of the guardsmen. One was injured gravely, but your maester believes he will recover hale enough in time.”

Berenna beamed, most pleased to know it. She wondered who would come, if her uncle would be left as castellan or if he would ride out also. She suspected the party would be light, to move swiftly. Father would be anxious. He did not have a reputation for quiet stoicism, such as her Uncle. Lord Cregan Stark had more of the wolf blood in him. She did not doubt he would form a party to hunt out any brigands that escaped the guards’ justice. When she enquired about this, Uncle Ned confirmed her suspicions.

“Your Uncle Beron and cousins have set out in two parties, to hunt down any other accomplices,” he said, “There are rumours of a larger group, but you need not worry about it child. My cousins have the matter well in hand.”

Berenna nodded, pleased. She surveyed the imposing heart tree above their heads, in awe of its masterly size. There were three weirwood trees at the Ridge, growing entwined together, but even then they did not stretch so wide nor reach so high into to bright blue sky.

“I will leave you to your prayers,” said Uncle Ned, before gently reaching down to kiss her brow in a fatherly manner.

When she was alone, Berenna knelt on the dry earth and began to implore the gods for the health of her family, their safe passage to Winterfell, and the apprehension of the black-hearted men who were terrorising the honest folk of the wood. She remained for some time, until her stomach announced that it was perhaps time for luncheon.

 

 

_~~~She could only pray that Hugo and the others had lived, and she intended to.~~~_

 

 

On her way back inside the keep, Berenna crossed the courtyards to the training ground, where she caught the tail end of a sparring session between Theon Greyjoy and Jon Snow. Of the two, it was evident that Jon was the better swordsman, but if she recalled correctly, there were none at Winterfell who could best Greyjoy with a bow. The two were tiring, but Greyjoy seemed loathe to concede, dragging the fight onto the bitter end.

“Come to join us, Renna?” asked Robb with a cheeky, playful smirk.

“Dare not to challenge my honour, Robb Stark,” she said, “Or I shall have to defend it.”

Robb shook his head and placed one hand upon his chest.

“I would never,” he said, “I’m sure you thoroughly trounced Jon, the last time you fought.”

“And I’m certain she beat you also,” Jon called over, glaring at his brother.

Robb laughed heartily, as Berenna shook her head at the playful rivalry between them. She was quite sure she had managed to best them less times than they had returned the favour. But they were kind not to say so, and she smiled winningly at the praise. Jon joined them, wiping heavy sweat from his brow. He had finally succeeded in besting Greyjoy, and apparently the loser had to help clear away the swords, as Jon had relinquished his sword to the other boy.

“Have you eaten?” she asked her cousins, who shook their heads.

The three of them made their way to the great hall to enjoy turnip soup with crusty hunks of bread. After days of surviving on her own efforts, Berenna inhaled the soup, despite it not being a flavour she was particularly keen on. Arya squirmed her way to sit between Berenna and Jon, and immediately began regaling her baseborn brother with the tale of Berenna ‘putting Sansa in her place’.

“I was not as harsh as that,” Berenna protested, but Arya snuggled into her and beamed.

“It was brilliant,” the younger girl asserted, “You used Sansa’s needles against her.”

“Needles?” Berenna repeated, baffled.

“Her prodding, poking speech. She was mad because you said she was impolite and all Sansa cares about is being a stupid lady. I can’t do that, I can’t use her ways to make her mad. I only act like myself and that makes her cross enough.”

“You and Sansa need to stop this foolishness,” said Robb sternly, “She is your sister, and you need each other. You should try harder to be friends.”

“Robb is right,” Berenna agreed, “Though you must not allow her to push you about either. You are a Stark of Winterfell. She has no right to make you play the second fiddle to her harp. You are every piece as important as her.”

Arya blinked, surprised, while Robb looked a little chagrined.

“I am?” said Arya.

“Of course,” said Jon from her other side. “You’re perfect, Arya.”

“Sansa’s perfect,” Arya grumbled, “Not me. Septa is always saying so.”

“Septa Mordane is patient and kind, but she can be as biased as anyone," said Berenna, "Think of her position, Arya. Your mother expects the Septa to praise her eldest daughter whenever she acts as a Southron woman would, as that is what your mother expects from a well-bred young lady. What do you expect would happen to Septa Mordane, if she praised you for acting as a Northern woman might?”

Robb, Jon and Arya frowned, but Berenna pushed on regardless.

“Why, she would be replaced, of course. If this Septa could not train her daughters in the manner that she wished, Lady Stark would find another who could.”

Robb in particular looked very disturbed by this, as though the power his mother had to appoint household positions had never occurred to him. Berenna pointed this out by saying;

“That is why a man must choose wisely, what wife will serve him well by managing the household properly. If she cannot get along with his bannermen, and introduces, say, a different custom into the House, then those other lords might come to resent her presence.”

“Are we talking of politics?” said Greyjoy loudly with an ugly grimace, sliding into the spare space beside Robb, across the table from Berenna.

“All of life is politics,” she said primly.

“Your boring life maybe,” said Greyjoy, “Some of us prefer to fill their time with fun.”

“Oh yes?” Berenna mocked, “And do you not think it is politics when the girls you visit in Wintertown praise you? Or do you think your name has no bearing on how thrilled they are?”

Theon’s mouth fell open in incredulous outrage, while Robb and Jon both burst into laughter. Arya frowned, completely confused. Satisfied that she had scored her point against him, Berenna went back to her soup.

She was glad it would not be long before she had her close family with her, to better help her navigate her time at Winterfell. Berenna was not certain if she had accidently levelled great accusation against Lady Stark, inadvertently. She would feel safer when Father or Hugo was there to raise an eyebrow, telling her when to close her foolhardy mouth.


	4. fjögur

After luncheon, Berenna checked on the health of her loyal mare. Then she sought out the Master of Horse, Hullen, after she had confirmed with her own eyes that Cinder’s wound was not infected. Though aggressive and just as horrible as she remembered, the wound was pink and not yellowing with pus, nor a dangerous shade of green or black. This gave Berenna hope, as did the fact that her horse was comfortably chewing through a bag of grain, clearly happy to be out of the wild elements, and inside a safe stable. Berenna found Hullen to be an exceedingly polite man, eager to praise Berenna for her swift application of the poultice to Cinder, which had most probably prevented an infection setting in over the course of their journey.

 

Flush with pride, Berenna ended her first night in Winterfell by carefully brushing her hair through and braiding it, a nightly ritual her mother had taught her long ago. It had been horrible to be filthy, with her long chestnut locks all entangled, on the road. She wondered then what motivated wildlings and hedge knights to keep moving about, and not settle into a single area, and never enjoy the comforts of a stable home. There were plenty of towns and cities in the South where a man could build a comfortable home for himself, and the wildlings were said to be split into separate tribes, dominating certain areas Beyond the Wall. Berenna wondered why they did not build cities and towns of their own. Perhaps it was in an effort to remain hidden from the Night’s Watch, or perhaps prey was so rare in the far North that they were forced to keep tracking it ever onwards, following the migrations of beasts.

 

With those idle thoughts distracting her, Berenna curled up beneath the rich and heavy furs on her borrowed featherbed, and settled into sleep. If she dreamed, she did not recall it when she woke. The new day found her up with the dawn chorus, full of vim and vigour.

 

Berenna was still anxiously awaiting her Father’s arrival. But though she strained her eyes as she withstood the blustering wind along the crenellations at the top level of Winterfell, after breaking her fast, she saw not a flicker of cloth that might be a banner among the thick trees. Disappointed, but determined to make use of her time in Winterfell while it lasted, Berenna made her way to the sparring yard. There she found only Jon Snow remaining, gathering the arrows from a recent bout of practice, and slotting them back into barrels. The targets were still set up, and with no one to gainsay her, Berenna reached for the nearest bow and took aim. The arrow flew straight and true, landing not far from the centre of the target. Bolstered with confidence by this initial success, Berenna knocked another arrow and let it fly.

 

“You have some skill with the bow, Lady Berenna,” came the flat, emotionless voice of Lady Stark, startling Berenna so that she almost lost her grip upon the weapon in question.

 

She dipped her head in receipt of the compliment, and returned the borrowed bow to the stand she had plucked it from. Lady Stark watched her with curious eyes. Despite her age, she was a beautiful woman, and if there were streaks of silver in her Tully red hair, they had been well-hidden by the clever hands of her attendant ladies. Berenna wondered if she would one day grow up to be a woman of such statue and poise, but she doubted it.

 

“This meagre skill served me well, on the road,” Berenna admitted, “I should not have been able to feed myself otherwise.”

 

Lady Stark seemed startled by that, as though she had not considered, until this precise moment, how Berenna had managed to keep herself fit and in decent health during her journey. Lady Catelyn’s surprise quickly turned to disapproval, and she clasped her hands together at her waist and pursed her lips.

 

“Had you not been outside your father’s keep when the commotion began, you would not have been in any danger, nor in aid of what sustenance a bow can provide,” she pointed out.

 

“Yes, my lady,” Berenna agreed, but years of being her father’s only heir had made her bold, or perhaps it was the wolf blood in her, snarling at the insinuation that her father was not a prudent enough man who let her run wild.

 

She drew herself up to her full height, which was not impressive but made her feel stronger regardless, and continued;

 

“However, I would prefer to be involved in a hundred skirmishes, if it meant a life lived not cooped up behind a castle wall, but roaming the lands my forefathers walked, and the Children before them. The North is my home, and it is a wild, untamed land, rich in beauty. I count myself blessed by the gods that I was born and bred here, with eyes that can appreciate its wonders.”

 

Lady Stark said nothing, only the dark of her eyes spoke, and they held a thunderous silence. Berenna was not in the habit of asking permission to be dismissed. So she did not do so now, turning instead to her baseborn cousin, who held as much ancient and noble Stark blood as she herself did.

 

“Jon, would you accompany me to the crypts? It is not often that I visit Winterfell, and while I am here, I would pay my respects.”

 

Jon, who had slunk into the shadows when Lady Stark appeared, had attempted unsuccessfully to creep away without his father’s wife taking note of him. He clearly felt his tasks in the yard were complete enough to warrant such a departure. But he immediately stilled when Berenna addressed him by name.

 

“Aye, my lady,” he said, a respectful address she knew he would never have used, were it not for Lady Catelyn’s presence.

 

Berenna did not wish to shame him. But she could not help the frisson of anger than rushed through her, at Jon’s clear and honest fear of Lady Stark and her black looks. Berenna could not fathom anyone ever finding fault in Jon, who was attentive to his chores and studies and siblings, as dutifully as any man that ever held honour in esteem.

 

“Fie, Jon, what need is there for such formality between kin? I am still just Renna, as I ever was,” she said, and took his arm with a warm smile.

 

“Good day, Lady Stark,” she remembered to add, with a shallow curtsey to the Southron woman.

 

Lady Stark dipped her head quickly in silent reply. Her attention was clearly consumed by Jon, now that she was reminded of his presence. She stared at him with a look so frigid and bleak, Berenna was afraid Jon’s blood might turn to ice, and kill him where he stood. Tugging upon his arm, she encouraged Jon to move, and they hurried towards the crypts.

 

As ever, the crypts of Winterfell were eerily calm and quiet in comparison to the healthy bustle in the remainder of the castle. Jon lit a torch from a nearby sconce. Together, they made their way down the dark and gloomy tunnel that housed the bones of their long-dead ancestors. Berenna’s eyes adjusted to the dark quickly enough to take in the statue of Lady Lyanna. She was the first and only woman to gain a statue here, though many a Lord of Winterfell had been buried with the bones of his lady.

 

They did not linger to look upon the last resting place of Jon’s poor aunt, but continued onward past Lords Brandon and Rickard. (Their tombs were empty save for Lady Lyarra Stark’s bones, resting below where her husband’s should have lain.) Next came Lord Edwyle, Jon’s great-grandfather, his father Lord Willam, then at last to Lord Beron Stark, who was great-great-great grandfather to Berenna and Jon both.

 

The crypts were littered with small candles, waiting to be lit by those who came to remember them. Berenna picked one from the dusty, cob-webbed floor to do so. If Jon was surprised by her choice, when she worked the candle into a stone recess in Beron’s statue that was intended for the purpose, he did not say so. Berenna stared up at the stern face of her ancestor, and tried to find the look of her father or grandfather there. Berenna had been lucky enough to know her grandfather, though he had died when she was a girl. Of what she remembered from that silver-haired, kindly greybeard, she could not see in the stone carving of Beron. Lord Beron stood proudly, his rusty sword hanging from one carved hand; the other was wrapped about a thick stone tome.

 

Beron was well-known for being a man of high learning, who might have gone south to learn the mysteries of the world at the Citadel, had his elder brother not died, leaving him as their father’s heir. Berenna wondered if he felt wrong-footed, stepping into his brother Rodwell’s spot. And if the current Lord Stark had felt equally unprepared when Lord Brandon died. Berenna could not imagine being thrust into a position of such power, on the cusp of a war, with a father and brother lost in one fell swoop, and a marriage hurriedly determined for a political alliance. No wonder Lord Stark had fallen into the arms of Jon’s mother, seeking comfort and the reassurance that he might survive the tumultuous war stirred by Robert’s rebellion.

 

Berenna sighed heavily, and tried to think on happier things. Hugo still lived, and here was the final resting place of Lord Beron, a man who lived through similar skirmishes with Ironborn and wildlings, but never faced a war. She hoped that Robb’s time, when it came, would be similarly peaceful.

 

“Here lies Beron Stark, the blood of my blood,” she said softly, “The father of my great-great-grandfather. May the gods grant him rest.”

 

“May the gods grant him rest,” Jon echoed, equally comfortable with the ancient traditions of the North.

 

There way was the old way; Northmen and women did not need children’s tales of Seven Heavens to prance and frolic in after death. Their bones went into the earth, their spirits taken into the woods and earth and stone, returning to the ancient gods that had accepted them when the First Men made peace with the Children. It was a relief to Berenna. She was glad to know her spirit would be kept safe by the gods of the forest when she departed this life.

 

In the quiet of the crypt, surrounded by their shared kin, Berenna wondered again if a match with Jon Snow would be possible. She had set aside her girlish dreams of wedding for love long ago. But she could not help the kernel of hope that kindled in her breast, at the thought of it. If their fathers agreed to the match, Jon could return with her to the Ridge, and she could live out the remainder of her days there.

 

Though Jon was a little too sulky and morose to be a truly thrilling prospect for a girl, Berenna could not deny he was handsome, and polite. They shared common values and a devotion to the old gods that his siblings seemed to lack. And a part of her wondered if it would not be possible to tease more smiles and laughter from him, were he out from beneath the hateful looks and bitter words of his father’s sour wife.


End file.
